


hoping some ghost would be here still

by darthjamtart



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Mutants, Gen, Mutant Powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 14:19:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2696132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthjamtart/pseuds/darthjamtart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a poster hanging in the window of the Beacon Hills library: brightly-colored depictions of children at desks, holding books, captioned, <i>KEEP YOUR CHILDREN SAFE. KNOW WHAT’S IN THEIR CLASSROOMS.</i> Smaller text at the bottom reads, <i>Paid for by citizens in support of the Mutant Registration Act.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	hoping some ghost would be here still

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brilligspoons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brilligspoons/gifts).



There’s a poster hanging in the window of the Beacon Hills library: brightly-colored depictions of children at desks, holding books, captioned, _KEEP YOUR CHILDREN SAFE. KNOW WHAT’S IN THEIR CLASSROOMS._ Smaller text at the bottom reads, _Paid for by citizens in support of the Mutant Registration Act._

Allison rips the poster from the window and shreds it into scraps, dumping the pieces into a nearby recycling bin.

“Careful,” Lydia says. “People will think you’re a mutant.”

“Let them,” Allison says. She tosses her hair, a move she learned from Lydia, and strides out of the library.

Beacon Hills had never been much of a hotbed for political unrest, but it was home to the Hale family, and with Peter Hale coming out in support of the Mutant Registration Act, the town was suddenly getting national attention. Lydia catches a clip from the latest news cycle from someone’s car radio, parked outside the library with the window down.

_...protection, not just for ordinary citizens but for those families, like mine, who face persecution because of their perceived difference. Registration will help us provide more safety and security for everyone._

“That was Senator Hale, speaking this morning from DC before he returns to his hometown of Beacon Hills for a memorial dedication. Hale’s entire family was lost in a fire six years ago, which local officials suspect was caused by arson, although this was never proved. Now it’s Arnie with the latest from…”

The car pulls away, taking with it the radio and whatever Arnie was about to share.

Six years ago, Lydia had been navigating the treacherous social waters of Beacon Hills Middle School, planning the best route to popularity. Mutant abilities tended to manifest around puberty, but no one in her class seemed to be showing any signs. There’d been a Hale in the class above hers, but she’d never done anything out of the ordinary. If it hadn’t been for the fire, and Senator Hale’s statements about the majority of his family being mutants (himself excepted), Lydia would have assumed that everyone in their quiet little town was normal.

Well. Normal being a relative term.

Allison’s phone beeps, a text message from Scott: _r u going to the protest?_

“You know they’ll just put the names of everyone at the protest on a list, have us all investigated,” Lydia says, but it’s not really an objection.

“Good,” Allison says. “Hopefully they’ll end up wasting a lot of time and resources digging up information on people who aren’t even mutants.” She pauses, then, hitching her bag up slightly higher on her shoulder. “If you don’t want to go, I’ll understand.”

Lydia lifts her chin, tosses her hair, the same gesture Allison has been echoing for almost their entire friendship. “I have nothing to hide,” she says.

It’s almost true.

***

Peter Hale looks almost too young to be a senator, flashing an easy smile at the assembled crowd, catching the eye of every cameraman. He has a knack for setting people at ease, always seeming to know exactly the right thing to say.

“I thought he’d be taller,” Lydia says, tilting her head and gazing at the podium. Behind her, Stiles tosses a handful of popcorn in the air and catches none of it in his mouth. Scott munches on a handful in a more reserved fashion.

“I can’t believe you brought snacks to a protest,” Allison says, elbowing Scott until he guiltily offers to share.

“We need fuel. For all the chanting and sign-holding,” Stiles says. His sign is propped against his knees, block letters reading, _MUTANT REGISTRATION = CIVIL RIGHTS VIOLATION_.

Lydia squints at the sign. “Did you outline each letter in rainbow glitter?”

“Yes? It was leftover from the protest we did last month, you know, to support gay marriage?”

Allison shakes her head, but fondly, and Lydia finds that she can’t really complain about Stiles’ enthusiasm. At least the glitter should catch the light and make the sign more visible.

It’s not the kind of attention she ever imagined herself seeking, six years ago. Lydia has always known she was different. She’d just always thought it was because she was smart, and middle school had seemed like a terrible time and place to flaunt even that.

_Well, now,_ someone murmurs, not quite in her ear, and Lydia jerks, twisting to look, to see, even as she realizes there will be nothing. _You’re something quite special, aren’t you?_

In her head, someone is _in her head_ , and Lydia takes a shuddering breath, closing her eyes even as Allison is asking, “Lydia? Are you all right?”

“Shut up for a minute,” Lydia says out loud, and tries her best to _think_ the question, _who are you? What do you want?_

_Really, I’m not_ that _short,_ Peter Hale muses.

Her hand finds Allison’s, grasping, and she tries to open her mouth, to tell them, “Peter Hale is a mutant,” but she can’t get the words out, can’t even open her mouth. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, she can’t even breathe, eyes open but her vision going dark, narrowed to a pinpoint of Peter Hale smiling benignly as he strolls off the stage.

And then she can breathe again, but she still can’t speak, can’t say a single word. Allison is peering into her face and asking anxious questions but all Lydia can hear is a buzzing in her ears, Peter Hale promising, unheard, that he’ll find her later.

***

“I’d hoped it would be someone in Beacon Hills,” Peter says. It’s dark and Lydia doesn’t know where she is or how she got here, surrounded by trees, her feet bare against the cold earth. “It makes things easier. And it feels right, don’t you think?”

Lydia steels herself against the tremors in her bones, raises her chin. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Please don’t lie to me, Lydia. Or to yourself. It’s so tawdry, lying.”

She has to laugh at that. “What would you call what you’ve been doing, then?”

“Misrepresentation?” Peter smirks, leaning closer. “For a good cause, of course. It’s hardly the same. We’re better than that, you and I. Alike.”

“I’m nothing like you,” Lydia says, forcing cool disdain into her voice. She’s wearing a light cotton robe over pajamas, but she straightens her spine to stand queen-like and still.

“Tell me about your dog, Lydia,” Peter says, coaxing. He’s in her head again, she’s sure, oozing through her memories.

“Prada,” she says, and there he is, a tiny puppy in a box at Christmas. _You’re going to be mine forever,_ ten-year-old Lydia had promised, and there he is again, still small, crushed against the side of the road as fourteen-year-old Lydia crouches over him, touches her fingers to his ribs until he’s wagging his tail, barking a too-late reprimand at the long-gone car.

“You know what it’s like to wield a power that no one can understand,” Peter says. “That no one can ever know about.”

“My friends know what I am,” Lydia says.

“That you’re a mutant who can heal, yes,” Peter says agreeably. “That you can raise the dead?”

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to. He already knows all of it, all of _her_.

“Reach down into the dirt, Lydia,” Peter says, an order for all that his voice is soft, still coaxing. Shuddering, Lydia does as he commands, brushing her fingers through the scattered twigs and leaves. “You’ll have to go deeper than that,” Peter says, and she does, sifting through loose earth until her hands hit bone and the remnants of clinging, rotting flesh.

“I don’t even know if it will work,” Lydia whispers.

“You’ll make it work,” Peter says, a promise and a threat. “If you need a reminder of how it works, I’m sure we can come up with a fresher corpse, though.”

_Allison._ Lydia closes her eyes, fights the urge to vomit. “Let’s make a deal,” Peter says. “You give me my family back, and I’ll leave your little friend out of it when I take my revenge on _her_ family.”

“What makes you think her family had anything to do with the fire?” Lydia snaps, and then shrinks back when Peter turns a cruel, gleaming smile on her.

“I _know,_ ” Peter says. “I’ve seen everything. From every angle. I heard their screams from the perspective of a half dozen murderers. I smelled them burning, upwind, downwind, felt the sparks on my face and heard the orders given by a woman who shares your friend’s surname.” He crouches close to her, his hand covering hers as they cradle a filthy skull. “I could have walked each and every one of them off a cliff and been done with it, but I want my family back, and for that I need you. So help me, Lydia, and I won’t make you share my nightmares for the rest of your long, long life.”

“You’re insane,” she says.

“I betrayed everything I believe in to find you,” Peter murmurs, and that’s almost the worst thing so far. Lydia reels back, stumbling.

“The Mutant Registration Act?”

“Will disappear,” Peter says dismissively. “Now that I have what I want.”

“Me,” Lydia says.

“Unless you refuse to cooperate, of course.”

“It could kill me,” Lydia warns.

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Peter says, and his gaze hardens. “Now, Lydia. Bring them back.”

She breathes, deep and slow, fresh forest air and no light but the distant stars and a slim crescent moon. The skull is cold in her hands, corpses lumped together at her feet. She presses her fingers to bone and begins.


End file.
